


Seepage

by darkrabbit



Category: Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 07:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 12,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkrabbit/pseuds/darkrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor gives birth in the Hub. Everyone panics but him. Chaos, normal and hormonal, ensues. Mickey doesn't blame him. MPREG.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. -

**Author's Note:**

> This story is what happened when I started staring at my drabble saying, oo I should do...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is what happened when I started staring at my drabble saying, oo I should do...  
> Also, my friend tardis_mole wrote chapter 3! ( He may have written one of the others but I can't remember which one; you rock, Mole-y!)

I sat down heavily in Jack's swivel chair and settled myself.

"Well, Jack, do you recall how older and older female humans have been able to get pregnant through the recent technological advances? Well, I'm not exactly female or human, but... I've got a little miracle on the way. Perhaps two, if the zygotic divisions surpass their current numbers."

The captain's face had never lit so thoroughly as his blue eyes sized up my slim frame.

"Doctor! Will you show, or are you bigger on the inside, as well?"

I nodded.

Jack Harkness was grinning widely, and so was I.

"What are you going to do about it?" he asked, smile fading a little at his own question, the once bright, deep tread of his lips now merely a shallow flicker of light cross a firefly's wings.

Trust a soldier to say what needed saying.

"Doc?"

Soon, before I realized it he was touching my shoulder, massaging my neck with warm, considerate fingers.

"You're cold. Is that normal, for a Time Lord? I've noticed that you rarely seem affected by temperature changes."

 

His hands slowed, kneading out kinks I hadn't allowed myself to feel for months. Had it been that long since I'd... left her with him? One deep breath, and I found words again.

"Time Lord physiology graces us with a higher tolerance, thus the lower temperature." 

I kept still, easing into his hands as he soothed the crushing crust of hardship with variable pinch, grab, release motions that rendered me vague and sleepful as his digits dug and poked every centimetre of my shoulder line below and above. He was turning me to putty, and he knew it. Almost as good as me, with those hands.

"I'm not a lump of clay on a wheel, Jack Harkness. Lest you forget." 

My sigh rang on half deaf ears, of course, and so, not entirely against my oftimes formidable will, I eased back my head, closed my eyes, and drifted.


	2. -

“... the hormonal changes seem to be calming him down, if anything. And no, Mickey Smith, he’s not showing yet.”

“It’s a bit wild, thinking of him in these terms, boss. Looks like he’s meditatin’ or sumfing.”

Mickey Smith looked across the room, where the thin form of the Doctor sat cross-legged on a square pillow, holding the same pose he’d been in for at least half an hour.

“Think he can hear us, where he’s gone?”

Jack let his eyebrows crash over his eyes in a light frown as Mickey glued himself to the den and the silent figure of the Time Lord in repose on the polished fruitwood floor.

“Probably. What makes you think he’s not erm, with us?”

Mickey threw him a confused scowl.

“Well for starters he’s an alien, he’s brilliant, and he’s not talking, and he’s sitting up. Plus, ain’t never seen him like this before. Could be holding a bloody séance in there and we wouldn’t know it, if the way he got sick ‘at one Christmas’s any indication. Time Lord thing, maybe.”

“More like a pregnancy requires rest and concentration thing, Mickety Smith,” murmured the subject of their conversation, not shifting from his seat on the soft, thick floor pillow that just barely stuck out beneath his tight rump.

“Sorry to disappoint you two, but I’m not dead. I’m practicing a modified prenatal Yoga pose, like the Cobbler’s Pose in normal Yoga. Satisfied?”

So he wasn’t off getting lost somewhere in that oversized brain of his. Both men breathed an inner sigh of relief as they watched him finally move into another phase of the pose by tipping his bare feet toward each other.

Jack could feel the calm in the Time Lord’s voice descend on him as though it were his own, and he didn’t like it. People only grew that calm for one reason. When they were facing death.

“You -are- dying though, aren’t you?” he asked solemnly, his blue eyes dulling a fraction as his hands balled to fists and sweated concern they both knew he would never show. 

They were almost alike, that way. His hero was about to undertake the biggest journey of his life, again, and all of that while carrying a child.

Then he saw it, a slight hesitation in breath, a hitch in movement as the Man from Gallifrey flowed fluidly into another pose. He had struck a nerve, perhaps several.

“It won’t affect the baby. Everything’s fine.” 

The Doctor sighed then and pushed himself up using the wall, his thin body neatly obscured by familiar jimjams borrowed from the flat’s owner, who happened to be Mickey Smith.

“Mickey, were you able to find the special tea I told you about? I’ve got that disgusting craving for pleistocene alluvial and honeycomb again... so sorry about the price, but my erm, infinite credit line should cover the cost for you. Here.” 

Barely turning, he tossed the young man a shiny silver card. 

“What? I keyed it to you, so you won’t lose it. Why don’t you go try it out instead of gawking at me, eh? Eh? Go on then!”


	3. -

Jack walked into the room, speaking into a headset, rapid instructions to Ianto and Gwen out in the field. He was in control and all that. Even so he was ruffled. Anyone would think it was his baby on the way... not that anyone was saying.

Jack Harkness. Jack the lad. Jack of all trades. He didn’t know jack. But to look at him anyone and everyone would think he was calm assurance personified.

As he moved towards the sofa on the main level of the Torchwood Hub, when the Doctor sat cross-legged, eyes closed, Jack picked up Toshiko’s old chair in one hand, turned it and set it down again. To the untrained eye he was showing off. To the trained eye... he was showing off. He plonked himself facing backward in the chair and ignored Mickey’s reaction - rolled eyes, a shake of his head and a sigh - and folded his arms across the back of the chair. He rested his delicately cleft chin on the top like a cherry on the pinnacle of an ice cream sundae.

“So, Doctor,” he began.

The person he was addressing - an alien of some ill-repute, named so unfairly and with racist intent by his previous employers - did not move or react in any way. For all Jack knew, he might have been dead but for the faint but tell-tale signs of his breathing. For all he knew he might have been asleep. Or he might have been seeing things and the Doctor might be dead. He’d rather not think about it, but now that he did think about it he realised that the Doctor had not moved, had not opened his eyes, had not even said a word in at least an hour.

Actually, there was a movement. So slight. So tiny. Almost not there.

“What can we expect?” Jack continued.

Even as the words tripped out of his mouth, the facade dropped off him like a falling rock. Jack’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

“Doctor?” he called out quietly, concerned.

Finally, the Time Lord moved. Just one movement. And it was so subtle, so pin-point accurate, it made Jack jump. The Doctor opened his eyes and stared right at him, eyes wide, dark and looking terrified.

Then nothing happened.

Jack lifted his head, on the alert, as if listening, as if detecting something, as if there was something to hear or detect to give him an edge, so that he could be in the know, the first to know. But still nothing happened. Except that those large, dark eyes were glazed, frightened and fixed on him like a predator. No, not like a predator. Like a... Like a what? Prey? No...

The wheels in Jack’s mind slowly turned, aligning themselves one at a time until a pattern emerged, a sequence, a clear-cut answer. The Doctor, full of his knowledge and experience, was scared. He was a man in need of rescuing. He didn’t know what he was doing. Well, he did, but he didn’t. Did that make sense? Probably not.

Jack’s eyes flicked to the Doctor’s abdomen, and primly flicked back up again. That was rude. That was like asking a woman her age. No, worse than that. It was like pretending to drop a few coins and looking up their skirts while bending to pick them up. It was like changing your name to Tom and getting a job as a window cleaner, just so you could catch people at it.

Jack’s eyes flicked downward again. There had been another movement after all. The Doctor’s hands. His hands had moved. One minute they were resting, almost comatose, on his knees, the next they were spread-eagled across his belly like a protective cage. No, not cage. Like a... sensor net. Feeling something.

What was he feeling?

Could he feel its heart beating? Could he feel it moving? Could he feel it growing? Listen to him, Jack silently regaled himself. It wasn’t an ‘it’. It was a baby, a person in a small package.

At least he hoped it was small.

Now he recognised what those eyes were telling him. This was a first-time parent who did not know what was going to happen. Not first hand. Time Lords didn’t give birth; their children were grown, in a machine. And as a result, and quite understandably, the Doctor was scared.

Jack plucked himself from the chair as if it had suddenly, inexplicably, become too hot to sit on. Like a hot seat... Maybe later with the humour, Jack, the last of Boe-Kind told himself. When had the Doctor’s hands moved? What were they doing? And more importantly why? Had he been so fixated with his friend’s face that he had missed it? Well, the Doctor was handsome...

What?

So, he still fancied the Doctor. Deal with it...

Never mind.

Jack was on is feet, blasé attitude gone, full alert status at red. He pushed the chair out of the way, this time dropping it on its side forgotten, and approached the sofa where the Doctor sat cross-legged. So relaxed. So in control.

No, he wasn’t.

The outside was relaxed and controlled, to the point of being inert or passive. Poised. But inside, just beneath the surface, the Doctor was anything but. And the closer Jack got the louder it got. It felt like a physical, tangible thing. An entity all of its own. The Doctor was screaming. A psychic wall of silence.

“Doctor?” Jack spoke again, this time softly as if reverent, as if not wanting to break a confidence.

The eyes followed him, as if anchored in Jack’s soul, latched on to his eyes for dear life.

“What’s wrong?”

Jack did not expect to hear him speak, or see him move. He didn’t expect any response at all. But he got one. And that wasn’t the most unexpected thing about it. It was what the Doctor said.

“I need a hug.”

So calmly, so controlled, so softly that Jack almost missed it. He almost thought he hadn’t said anything at all. But there it was; four words, tripping over themselves to escape the Doctor’s lips. How could he refuse?

Jack leaned in closer and wrapped his arms around his dearest friend, cradling his head against his broad chest, and dropped his face to the froth of gravity-defying hair atop the Doctor’s head.

After a few seconds he felt one of the Doctor’s arms around him, could sense the other one still remaining against the Doctor’s belly.

It was still flat. More or less. No one who didn’t know the Doctor could even tell that he was pregnant. Jack still expected it to balloon, just for show, just to prove that there was something in there, and that they weren’t going to find a Candid Camera team hidden somewhere in the Hub.

Jack felt and heard a faint, quivering breath. He could feel the gentle trembling of the Time Lord’s body. He was the only person in the room who had noticed, being this close. If Jack hadn’t been holding him, he would have missed it too.

“You’re not alone,” he told him gently.

“If there was any other way... ”

The sentence petered out and the Doctor left it hanging in the air. Jack knew it was a rhetorical argument anyway. In all the years he had known the Doctor he had never heard him ask for comfort. He would offer it, would give it freely when needed. But never seek it.

Jack lifted his head to glance at Mickey and Martha questioningly. Mickey was sitting at Owen’s old desk, and Martha was standing in the office doorway like a statue. And judging by their faces he could tell they hadn’t seen the Doctor ask for help or comfort before either.

Then Jack chose to ignore that. This was his moment, his alone. Setting his chin back on the Time Lord’s head he kissed his hair.

“Everything’s fine,” he assured him softly, “... who called the best doctor UNIT has, just for the occasion? And who has the best beds for aliens on the planet?”

He grinned.

“Five star service.”

Jack felt the Doctor’s arm slide from his body and return to where it had been before. He looked down and could see that he was holding his belly again. He stepped back, grin gone. The glazed look had returned to those gold-brown eyes. He wasn’t just alarmed now, he could hear red alert claxons going off in his head.

“Doctor?”

The eyes flickered up to Jack’s. Ok, he was beyond terrified. He was panicking.

“It’s starting,” the Doctor managed to whisper hoarsely.

The Doctor remained motionless, cross-legged, hands spread across his almost flat stomach. He neither moved or spoke, while all around him all hell instantly broke loose. Three headless chickens clucked about the place in some bizarre version of St Vitus’s dance. As he watched them in vague bemusement he realised that it wasn’t clacking he could hear. It was yelling.

“Well, I don’t know!” Martha shrieked.

“Guess!” Jack demanded, “... did you skip obstetrics?”

“No, I didn’t. But human obstetrics is one thing. The Doctor’s alien anatomy and physiology are completely different. And he’s a bloke. What’s he going to do? Cough up a bolus?”

“How the hell should I know?” Jack threw back.

“Shut up, both of you!” Mickey shouted above the din. “We should be helping the Doctor. Not arguing!”

Thank you, Mickey, the Doctor noted silently, as he leaned back on his elbows to pull off his borrowed pyjama bottoms. And before anyone could notice he covered himself from waist down with his overcoat. No sheets. No bed. Too Late.

His hands returned to his belly as he felt something shift again. And he tuned out the voices from around him.

“What do you need?” Jack asked.

“My instrument case... On second thought, leave them down there. We should move him into the medical bay. Save time,” Martha suggested.

“You want him giving birth in the autopsy suite?”

Martha looked up, as if considering it.

“How long does it take anyway?” Mickey cut in.

“No one knows,” Jack replied.

“What, didn’t they keep medical files?” Mickey scoffed in surprise.

“No Time Lord has given birth in Millennia,” Jack said.

“How’s that possible?” Martha said, “... the Doctor told me he was only nine hundred and forty-five.”

“Looms,” Jack explained, emerging at the top of the steps with Martha’s instrument case up from the autopsy room, “... their DNA was literally knitted together to create life.”

“Blimey. That takes the fun out of waiting nine months,” Mickey grumbled.

“Actually, it takes over a year,” Jack responded hurriedly, “... Martha, towels. Mickey, sheets. We’ll make up a bed in my office.”

Martha was off at once, but Mickey turned back in mid-stride.

“Um, excuse me. Hello? New guy?”

“Sheets, mortuary room, second cupboard on the right, top shelf,” Jack spouted.

And Mickey ran off.

The Doctor leaned back on his hands, lifting his head to stare up at the ceiling. It was quiet again - for the moment - which suited him better. He needed to concentrate. And he couldn’t concentrate with all that shouting. Unfortunately, as if they had read his thoughts and deliberately conspired against him in spite, they were back again. Still yelling. Still panicking. Still looking for things he knew he wouldn’t need. Still headless chickens.

“Mickey, get that bed made. Martha, trolley... ”

“No trolley.”

“Then put the stuff on the floor!” he amended, “... I’ll get the Doctor... ”

“Sheet’s on!” Mickey hollered from the office, throwing a sheet over the bare sofa that stood against the wall in Jack’s office.

“Three towels. Is that going to be enough? How much blood is he likely to lose?”

“I don’t know that either,” Jack forced out.

“How’s he going to deliver anyway? Are you suggesting I perform a caesarean?”

Jack sighed. “I’ve brought your instruments just in case, but... ”

Suddenly there was a noise that stopped them all in their tracks. All noise and motion ceased.

“What was that?” Mickey asked in a hissed whisper.

“I dunno... where did it come from?”

Jack looked at her, suddenly crouched defensively with his Webley in his hands, like instinct. He lifted his head a little and heard it again. A short gruff gasp of air. And then silence. Jack’s head swivelled towards the sofa and was upright in a second.

The Doctor, leaning back on his arms, stared at the ceiling, eyes fixed. It was obvious from the rapid rise and fall of his chest that his breathing was heavy and laboured. But he was still incredibly calm as he slowly brought his head forward and down. Catching his breath he carefully shifted his weight onto one hand while the other reached out to lift his overcoat just a little to take a look underneath.

Jack observed the Doctor for a fraction of a second, where he sat peering at something between his crossed legs... only they weren’t crossed anymore. They were sticking straight out in front of him. The Time Lord winced for a moment or two and let out another soft gasp.

Then he smiled.

Jack put his Webley away and stepped cautiously closer, then leaned in to take a look for himself.

“I don’t believe it.”

The Doctor sat up and reached under the coat to lift up a slippery object from between his thighs. He laid it on his chest and rested against the back of the sofa. Then everyone could see what the object was - a baby.

“I missed it,” Jack said, suddenly disappointed.

The Doctor looked up at him and offered him a tired smile. “You lot were busy. I didn’t want to interrupt.”


	4. -

Mickey Smith, sweetly enough, was the first to speak.

“You... you all sorted, Boss? Everything’s okay down there, yeah?”

“Need a damp flannel, Mickey,” I murmured, letting all thirty thousand of my very important thoughts drift upon the encroaching haze of pleasurable drowsiness. 

Then my eyes closed of their own volition, and in a fit of rare content I settled a long hand across my little girl’s back. She never moved, never even squealed her first breath. But she was alive! A child of mine, of Gallifrey, alive...

Though the rest of the world seemed to mute, in that moment, I could definitely feel Jack’s eyes on me, watching the dam for more cracks, to see if the stones contracted into their former positions, or merely shoved out and disintegrated, bleeding forth the rush of flood that was my uncontained self into the Torchwood Hub. So naturally, I set about to sleep, letting my girl curl up on my chest, her body venting quickly the frantic heat of birth beneath my cooling fingers.

Poor Jack. They were all cooing in respectful, quiet fashion around me, and he was no different.

“Oh look at that. Daddy’s little girl, she is.”

“And that ginger fuzz! Oh my god.”

“Should she be this quiet, I wonder?”

That was it. We both needed sleep.

“Oi! I know you lot are anxious to break out the name book, but honestly! What does it take for a bloke and his baby to be left to sleep in peace? I do sleep, you know. Four hours or so every few days as opposed to your very simian six to ten a night. Now clear off, and don’t bother us till nightfall, understand? Thank you!”

Ha! None of them breathed a word! Not a wink, at last. Taking my cue in the blessed silence that followed, I snuggled carefully into the couch, willing sore, still-healing nethers to move one more time. Thankfully enough, my lower body obeyed, and soon my young daughter and I were cuddled and sleepful under my favorite coat, the one from Janice Joplin that I liked so much.

At least I wasn’t contracting anymore. Or unconscionably wet.

Sleep arrived for one of us, wrapping us both in soothing darkness.

A collective breath, and then... someone lifted my legs, coat and all just so and flannelled off the discharge, a small bit of blood and natural water. Then another pair of hands brushed my hair from my face and blotted my forehead with another flannel, this one cold and damp and well rung out. Another volunteer ran eyes over my child, who must have been nibbling my finger in her sleep, for she shivered a bit when my hand shifted.

A sheet was placed over me, up to the waist, and someone with a rather articulate dexterity came in from another door and undid the buttons on my shirt, just enough to cover the baby’s exposed side.

Satisfied at length that we were in good hands, my brain succumbed in its entirety to the depths of true sleep as the others finally left, if reluctantly, to go about their work, leaving only Jack, loose and silent in the corner, perched on a chair as he watched me breathe and sleep, sleep and breathe.


	5. -

I stood there, not knowing what to say. What was I supposed to say? The others were all over him like a rash so much I felt sick to my stomach. Not because of revulsion, but because I couldn’t speak. This indecision. I have missed the most important and most spectacular miracle of the universe and all I could do was run around like a blue-assed fly. What the hell was I thinking?

I laughed cynically to myself. I know exactly what I was thinking - nothing. No head on my shoulders at all. Brainless, bimbo moment extraordinaire. God, he must have been so embarrassed. All of us are former companions and we were acting like a group of school kids at an adventure park. And there he was in need of comfort, assistance and quiet.

I feel like a cad.

Finally Martha and Mickey, like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, retreat into the other room, leaving the Doctor alone. He looks so grey. So tired. So exhausted. He had been so brave, so calm and yet he must have been in some pain. I know how it felt for me, and God did it hurt! And yet my most dearest, treasured friend hardly made a single sound.

I saw him sink against the sofa and knew he must have been uncomfortable. I’m not even sure if he is still awake after telling them to leave. I’m not even sure he realised he had asked for a flannel before collapsing against the cushions.

I saw Ianto walk in and pressed a finger to my lips, and Gwen behind him noticed too. I walked to the autopsy bay, grabbed a bowl full of warm water and two flannels and came back up the steps. The look on Gwen’s face was excited and respectfully quiet. She was so animated it warmed my heart. She was concerned that the Doctor might need help.

I nodded reassuringly as I passed. Settling the Doctor down against the arm of the sofa, there was no response to my presence or my touch. I thought he was asleep, or else in a coma. I lifted his legs and turned him a little more onto the sofa before cleaning him genteelly. So little blood. That surprised me. Then I remembered that Time Lords don’t bleed much except in exceptional circumstances. I then washed the Doctor’s face with the other flannel before covering him with the sheet that Mickey had dropped in his panic.

The Doctor’s eyes opened just a little as I unfastened the buttons of his shirt. The baby was silent and cold, her skin steaming gently in the cool air. Like a lake in autumn. It was a little girl, so small and perfect, sucking on her fingers. I don’t think he noticed that she was a little wet. I cleaned her as best I could considering that he wasn’t letting go of her any time soon.

I tucked the Doctor’s shirt around her as I manoeuvred his long coat off him and replaced it with the sheet right up to his waist. I leaned over him for a long moment, watching him sleep, wanting to ask, but didn’t. I passed the bowl and cloths to Ianto who took them away with him. Gwen made overtures for pizza in mime and skipped out the door, taking Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum with her.

Then, after a moment, I picked up the chair again and sat in it, backwards, to wait for the Doctor to wake up. I wonder what he would think to the name Prazithi? Or something a little less flowery... Like Donna... poor kid has her hair.


	6. -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's POV

“Brilliant. My nippies are seeping through my shirt.”

“Well, where’s the little one, Boss? Maybe you should lose the shirt and stem the gush.” 

I laughed, thinking about that day in the posh school when he’d teased me about screaming. Said it resembled the scream of a little girl! With a frilly skirt... six years old, with a frilly skirt! Now was the perfect time to get him back for it, too.

A backhand from Him was the last thing I expected, and the first thing I saw before the floor. Then I sank into my own happy little slice o’ darkness for the next two hours.

I woke up to hear the Captain and the Doctor fighting over something, probably who was going to change the nappy on Little Sister, as I had taken to calling her. Just to myself, o’course. Didn’t want the team to think I was goin’ soft, ‘specially not the Doctor. Crawling onto my knees where I’d sailed over and fallen behind the sofa, I crept around the edge to watch, pretending I’d been looking for something in the cushions.

“I need to leave, Jack.”

“Yeah, you said that, Doc. Why, exactly?”

“... I said it because it’s true. I need to leave.”

“You just keep repeating yourself. Like a broken record. There is obviously something wrong, and I’m not gonna go away till you tell me. So start talking, or I’ll chain you to a nice soft chair till you regenerate. But really... you’re in no shape to leave yet, and you won’t harm me to get to the only door out of here. So what is it?”

“You already know I’m dying, Jack. What more do you want from me?”

Old man was getting calmer by the mo, like he was on holiday or sumfin. But just like Jack, I weren’t buyin’ it eiver. Sumfin was up with the Boss, the way he’d smacked me away like I were a man shaped chocolate cricket ball.

I saw my chance to end the fight lying in the white pram near the window, and I took it, popping up and grabbing the baby and spinning ‘round so both of em could see her.

“Oh, come on then! Boss! Captain Cheesecake? Don’t do none of this wiv her in the room. If you two are gonna battle it out, do it on yer own time, not hers. I’m gettin’ her out of here and takin’ some air.”

As I crossed the room, walking between them to drive home my point, I saw the Doctor pale a bit and step back just enough to let me by. Whatever happened must have frightened him... 

Jack and he locked on each other, staring down the years between them and letting their anger simmer at a slow burn. Then the Doctor turned to me, trying to make sounds without breaking down.

“Mickey, I... I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry.” 

He raised his hand to his head and sank back into the couch.

Jack’s blue eyes were darting back and forth from me to the Doctor and such, trying to glean everything he could from the shadows that had suddenly possessed the Time Lord’s face.

Soon, he spoke, too. “Mickey, go. I’ll take care of this. I’ll take care of everything. Just go off for a while, okay?”

Then he shooed me quickly out the door.


	7. -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack's POV.

I turned to the Doctor and sighed.

“How is it that you always manage to cause trouble wherever you land?” I said, reaching out to touch the Time Lord’s shoulder.

He was still staring off down the street, his eyes stuck fast to the window where he’d seen Mickey passing by with his newborn daughter on the way to nowhere.

I never expected to be surprised by him a second time. Not in the way he turned to me, swaying into an about face like a discarded crash dummy, a dying machina leaking rancid oil onto once fertile ground, dropping jagged rust like snow from oxidised rents in once clean plating. He looked beaten, he looked... still bruised. And he -was- still bruised. Oh god. I could see it in those shining eyes. Those eyes held so much hurt they drooled it from the corners of his being, like sparkling specks of salt spilling from an angel’s eyes.

But the salt from this angel’s eyes really could hold back demons... and, for everyone’s good, I had to know he still believed.

So I took him by the shoulders and shook him, screaming it out until even the stars seemed to hear.

“Damn you! Let us in, you stubborn son of a bitch! We want to help you, not scale your emotional skyscraper like that French idiot! We aren’t superheroes, and we don’t have a thing for tall buildings and spandex! Although… ”

I blinked, looking off for a moment as a grin played over my face.

“… you would look good in red. What do you say, Doc? A nice shag for old times’ sake? It might help get some of that pent up frustration out.”

The Doctor just… he just looked at me, tears flooding down in little rivulets. I had to blink in reflex, because the flow from those pretty eyes of his seemed not to want an end any time soon.

\----

He was still staring at me as I guided him to our new couch and sat him down, rubbing circles into his head, his neck, his shoulders, his trembling arms.

“Do you know what I did on the night she was conceived?” he rasped it, his voice small, dry. 

He seemed, somehow, at once towering and diminutive, like the delicate clockwork nightingale in Andersen’s Nattergalen, soon to be crushed by a pre-ordained blow.

Time was a Bitch, a Coward and a Whore, to do this to him.

I knew then. Wisdom overrode all boundaries and came to me a supplicant, daring me to make it my own. Which, being terribly clear of mind for once, I did. And then I understood.

But it was too late. He was already speaking the words, and it was too late. Even as he said it, I could see the hope drain from his face, the last dregs of an afternoon rain as it leaves you… melancholy and desolate.

“I saved her, Jack,” he breathed through his hands, which had laced over him like a living cage, “I saved her that day, on Mars. I slid, callous madman that I am, I played God, and I saved her.”

My heart clenched as I said it, and I felt my lips go numb as the question left my mouth.

“Who was it, Doctor? Tell me. Who did you save?”

I think I heard a wheeze, and then, as he slid off the couch in a puddle of broken spirit, three little words fell from him.

“Captain Adelaide Brooke.”


	8. -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martha's POV.

Five minutes, forty-five seconds into my UNIT shift, I got the text and phone cam from Jack.

This is Captain Jack Harkness, formerly of Torchwood Cardiff. I have activated the TARDIS emergency Protocols and am sending this message to all reachable Companions of the Time Lord known as the Doctor, past, present and future.

The Doctor is down. 

I repeat, the Doctor is down.

I’d never run so fast in all my life. 

And I would stake that life, every time, every rotten, stinking, little time, on the fact that none of the others had, either.


	9. -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor's POV.

I could have blamed post-partum depression, I supposed, as I lay on the floor beside Jack’s new couch, holding myself, curled inward like a frightened crustacean. Soon everyone would know how brittle my mind truly was, all because I’d finally done the thing I’d fought so hard never to do. 

I’d played God. 

As from a window, looking outward from my eyes, by now two soulless panes that gleamed harshly in the icy light of too many deaths, I could see everyone around me, as though a fog had settled. Was this what the humans called a psychotic break?

Probably. And poor Adelaide paid my price for me, didn’t she? I made her pay it twice. There on Mars Base, and there, in the snow, out in front of her home. And as long as I live, I shall never forget their faces… that look in those childrens’ wild eyes as they ran from me. 

In fear.

I must have spoken that aloud then, for someone touched my cheek, whispering something. Then a soft prick kissed my neck, and slowly, so very slowly, my terror-stiff muscles relaxed into oblivion. 

\----

They set me out on a stretcher, carried me somewhere. Hands were held, brows were mopped. Prayers murmured themselves, half spoken from once friendly lips. The thought that someone cared about me made something in me laugh. I wanted to empty all three stomachs simultaneously and drown myself in the refuse.

Long, tedious moments passed, and then-

I remember; I was babbling in Gallifreyan…

Somewhere, far away, like the tolling of the Cloister Bell, a child’s cry echoed against my solitude; my hearts were on fire with self-loathing, but someone had paralyzed me, lest I hurt myself or someone else. Good for them.

Public good be damned. My concern had been for the Cosmos, but no more. I wasn’t safe for it to be around. I wanted to die. I wanted to die and not regenerate. I wanted to die and regenerate and become someone else, someone distanced from this madness, the feral storm inside. The demon I’d become. 

And I said I didn’t believe. 

After all these lonely years, I’d gone and become the Lie.

Everywhere I turned I saw their faces: Yuri. Mia. 

And Adelaide. Always, there would be Adelaide.

\----

Once they had me in the straightjacket, sometimes someone would come and touch my forehead. If I tried, I could almost believe I deserved the love and concern that seemed to pour forth from those chaste little pets. Another piece of the deception I’d wrapped myself in.

And when they at last were gone, at the end of each –session-, I truly felt relieved. There was no point in speaking, so no one did. Conversation gets drab then, beyond silence. It goes past all reckoning, to some feral portion of the self that somehow managed to elude the civilities. That part we all try to hide.

That part that, in the End, always bites us on the arse.

I’m not certain which one of the children I sank my teeth into, but… whoever it was, they tasted of metals, of car grease, of days slick with sweat and the memory of someone special.

Special. Had I the ability at that point in time, as I sucked greedily of poison at my own demonic breast, my dual natures self-chastising as both Kali Siva the dark nurse and Krishna the quasi-innocent, I would have chuckled to myself. Special. I’d no right to use the word, let alone apply it to myself. I lost that right the day I was born again on Mars. 

And I thought I’d been reborn in fire before.

Silly me.


	10. -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unnamed Multiple Companions' POV.

VISITORS LIST

 

It’s been nearly four months now. He’s weaker, but at least he isn’t biting at us anymore. Whatever happened to make him like this, I hope we never know.

 

Some days he just stares at you with a wild longing from behind the glass. Other days, he just… curls into a ball against the corner padding and rocks to the sound of his twin hearts. It makes me want to die. Because he…

 

Will we ever get him back again?

 

Sometimes I think he must have known this would happen, that some strange part of himself he’d forgotten made sure he had us, so that he wouldn’t… so that he wouldn’t... have to go mad, without someone to be with him.

 

If I remember, and I do, the last thing he said before he became completely catatonic was something along the lines of, ‘Do you hate me?’ Oh good God. The only thing I can’t recall is how many times I vomited that night, and practically every night since. Drink does that to a man.

 

I never thought I’d see it come to this. Not this way. Not the Boss. There are so many things in our lives that aren’t fair. Why this? Why now? Why him? Elsewise, how could I blame a bloke like him for finally breakin’ down after all the ringers ‘e’s been through? I don’ have it in me. I just don’t.

 

It is always hard to see a good man brought down. I can only hope he doesn’t stay there. Forever can be such a lonely place, when all is lost. I’ve seen that look in too many eyes before, though. I never expected to see it in his. But some of us still hope, at least. Some of us still hope.

 

No matter what happens with him, our love for the Doctor still stands. And we will never forget.

 

I don’t care what the others say. I know the Doctor is a good man at his core. He will never become the Valeyard! Never! Never.


	11. Rather Be Dancing

The animal in us… it’s always been such a feral, persistent thing, wearing us down. Crushing our defenses until we give in. But that is what intellect is, in the end. It is the one thing to stand between our souls and the Wilderness.

I can say this, because I am one who has, at long last, come out of the cold for good. 

Today, I have chosen will over wishing, wishing over will. I am the circle of myself, the Nibellung, the tool. I am Sigurd, the bearer of myself, the giver of wishing, but not of wishes. 

For I am a dreamer, too.

And today, my dream is broken, and reflected in the shards is the truth of my reality, which once I thought to leave behind.

Today I shall grind them together and make me a lens.

And through this lens, I shall glimpse the whole cosmos in a single word.

Hope.

\----

There is silence outside my door to-day. I awoke to light, a tiny bit of beam streaming in from the door to my padded room.

Something was wrong. The entire complex was dark.

Breathing in only once, I rose from my corner and peered into the face of the beam; there, a hand held a trembling clip-on torch shaped like a pen with a green light at the top.

Cheeky, I thought to myself, as I considered the young face that peeked back at me through the thick two-way glass of my confinement.

I smiled through the fog of my breath; death was close, I could feel her arms across my chest, pulling, squeezing the life from my hearts, my lungs gasping for air. But there were miles to go yet, before I could sleep.

Leave it to Frost to put it in perspective.

So, to this guard, who undoubtedly knew who I was on account of his incessant shaking, I offered one word, written in the breath I left on the door pane, the one word that could still open any door for me. The one word I knew might suffer my companions to trust me one last time.

Rose. 

I waited.

And waited.

Then I waited some more. Perhaps this one was a bit thick… poor child. Poor, thick child.

Lord I sound like Finch now. Is that common, after having a breakdown? To retain some kind of verbal resemblance to a rather unhappy, power-hungry cross between a bat and one of the Burman tribe of Kayan known as Padaung, who wear brass rings about their necks to stretch them to the heavens? My my my my my. I am getting senile in my old age. No, wait. Too late.

So I erased all trace of her name, blew again, and then drew a stick figure, and another to accompany. Holding hands, being happy. Eating a banana.

Susan would have laughed at me. Rose too.

I pressed my face to the glass, smushing my nose against the icy surface, and smiled in what I hoped was a reassuring gesture.

But the guard took one look at me and dropped his fancy pen-torch, then ran screaming down the empty hall, that lone pair of fearful footsteps echoing in the mental dust of the place like so much phosphorescent paint.

If only I’d remembered that I’d not cleaned up in four months before I called him over, poor young blighter.

Ah well. At last I now had the entire wing to myself. And a spiffy new pen-torch! Oh, for the little things…

Time to test out my four months’ worth of quality me time, I surmised, as I leaned against the door and focused what was left of my energies, my fingers pressed gently to either side of the lock.

Wonder of wonders, -oh look I’m being sarcastic here- it clicked. The door swung languidly open, and I breathed in, then looked the halls up and down.

“Well now!’ I asked the empty air, sticking a hand out to each side like a memorable plaster Egyptian, “… shall we go left, or right? Always wanted to know what my left hand was doing… and now that I know, hee-hee, ha-ha! Right it is!”

So I went down the right hand corridor, never to look back.


	12. -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack's POV.

It was dirty of me to send a green recruit into the monster’s den. But he seemed okay with it. He wanted to see for himself as much as I did. 

As much as we all did.

So when I sent my favorite privileged male nurse –a severe little blond number named Pierson Ellis Cutstone, proud bearer of a lovely tight arse and a pedigree to rival mine-, down the darkened hallway with only a penlight and a prayer, I knew what I was doing. Really I did.

But then, someone else crashed the party. 

Naturally, Mickey, Martha and the gang took it upon ourselves, in the spiritual absence of a certain Old Man, to tack down the situation.

So for the Time being, Little Boy Blue-Arse was on his own. Once upon a Time Lord, he’d been a loyal fan.

Now he was alone.

With a psychotic alien –Gallifrans temporodominus, to be exact- and his cousin, a rampaging megalomaniac.

But that was Torchwood for you. Dead or no.


	13. -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Master's POV.

“Left holding the baby? Is that what they call it these days?” 

Ah, as I looked into those wide blue eyes… I wanted to throw up.

And they name me the lunatic. 

That stupid git. Where does he get off getting pregnant and having a child without me? He should have at least named me god-monster, or something.

Damn stupid moron. 

But I already have a name picked out.

I shall be Uncle Harry!

“Uncle Harry! Uncle Harry!” I said, popping the Doctor’s baby gingerly up and down in the air like your average stupid monkey with their own clingy get, “… and what has Mummy Theta named you, my little niece? Hrm? Tell Uncle Harry, yes you can!”

Good grief.

Domestics.

Gotta love em!

Maybe I should have broken him out of Bedlam early, so he could play Little Suzie Housewife! Oh, that would have been very nice.

Fucking moron. Oh shit I’m running out of intelligent swear words.

…

…

Oops! Not bovvered!

Time to collect some heads back at the ward where they’re keeping him and steal theirs. I am, after all, the host with the most.

Heads, that is.

Hrm. Definitely a Lucy.

Or an Innocet. Very Egyptian. But then, the Lungbarrow Housekeeper always did have a way with her tongue.


	14. -

Screech. 

Bang.

Flashbangflash. 

Jack, Martha and Sarah Jane crouched together as streaks of light and metal careened, filling the hospital courtyard above their heads with holes and dust and the smell of ozone.

“We’ve got to get to the Doctor,” Jack mouthed, eyeing the two women from his side of the well manicured stone path, “… it’s him they’re after. As for me, it’s time for my exit.”

He rolled, keeping to the ground and continually getting shots off to provide cover as the girls ran for the opposite end, where two double no-break glass doors had miraculously survived the rain of alien projectile fire.

As they reached the doors, blood streaked across their backs, wetting their clothing in a fine spray.

And they kept going.

Jack would pop back up soon; no need to mourn a fixed point in time. Of course, all having been the Doctor’s angels once, each woman would attach her own brand of sentiment to the matter of Jack, and move on.

Their hands reached, pushed through the cold, thick glass. It slid quietly shut behind them, killing all sound of the murder being done outside.

They were past the worst of it, at last.

Soon Martha and Sarah Jane were huddled behind a column, listening to a madman they both knew cooing over the whining strains of another baby monitor.

How the hell had that happened? 

Sad thing was…

They already knew.


	15. -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor's POV.

My lungs drew breath; my bare feet flattened in step after step against the cold floors. Were they smooth, the smooth of polished concrete slabs which fill a garden path? Yes. Were they, in fact, said garden path? Decidedly not.

Another few steps, past a few quite cells, and I reached a small storeroom, probably where the nurses and orderlies congregated to watch over us mortals. Hrm. I rummaged, playing with my new pen torch as I searched for the drugs cupboard. Surely there would be something that could cut this dreadful headache… short of regeneration. Something within me was galvanizing, and I wished to see it through to the end, preferably before my brains were rearranged and nicely scrambled over a more than decent hollandaise sauce.

Suddenly a squeak drew my attention, and being what I am, instantly I knew what type of animal was hiding in the cabinets.

“Come out, come out, my poor little mouse,” I breathed, still a bit unsure of what I wanted to do with it once I caught it, “… what could you be doing alone in my house?”

A silence followed shortly after, and then, a small gurgling sound arose from my errant prey, a softness of rabid fear much like a bird beating its wings in futility against the water’s surface, before the drowning kiss of the undertow beckons and chafes.

With quiet steps, I knelt beside the offending cupboard and touched a hand to the old handles. They were antique; greening with age. But there were two footprints beneath the door, in the dust that had collected since the medical types had absconded for whatever reason.

Strange that no one save poor little mousekin was about, even given the many thousands of possible outcomes that could have caused the facility’s staff to abandon it.

In any case, I thought as I reached for the handles in earnest now, it had to be something relatively upsetting, or else they would have stopped to transport me. Which left a significantly fewer number of probabilities.

One had to admire the beauty, the elegance in the logical processes of properly utilized deductive reasoning.

I opened the cabinet, and was greeted by a trembling young man’s small ear and left brown loafer, hiding in the dark. He didn’t know I could see him, Time Lord that I was. So I decided to sit back on my haunches and wait for him to react to the sound of my voice.

“Is that you, young man? I remember you. You tried to come into my room once. I bit you. Ah, I… it’s a bit hazy, really. Need a hand up?”

The psychic force of Pierson Ellis’ scream of terror could have powered seven of those little pen torches.

He lunged for me, and for once I had no inclination to dive out of his way. Primal fear wells like that in every creature, alien or no. Classic tool, the shank. I would have been proud of him, had I not been worrying about other things.

“Very good, Pierson. Did you make that yourself?” I stopped talking only long enough to gauge his position and assess the damage he’d done to my praeterea nervimaniplus, the mass of nervous tissue near my shoulder. Humans did not possess one, and it was a good sign of his competence under duress that he had remembered that detail, of all things, from my file.

“Pierson?”

Again I reached for him, after mentally stemming the blood flow and blocking out what pain I could.

“We have to hurry, Pierson,” I murmured, trying to remember what a kind face looked like. Odd how you can gain so much perspective the moment you stop trying.

“Why?”

His eyes were wide, sky-filled saucers then, and as I looked at him, I could feel his heart pounding in his chest along with my own.

My own.

They were slowing down, speeding up; slowing down again.

I didn’t have long, perhaps a month. Perhaps two, if I actively tried not to make my weekly quota of near death experiences. Maybe even three if I forced myself to sleep for once. Barely enough time to do what was needed. But it would be done. Then, it would be done. Over. Ended.

“Are… are you all right, sir?” said Pierson, straightening his white uniform and checking my right heart’s pulse, “Captain Jack sent me to check on you, but something happened, and I ran. Then you found me.”

“Sir! You’re turning grey. Let me g-get you a wheelcha-

I stared at him, suddenly fascinated by the buttons on his orderly’s garb. The world seemed far away, and I could feel, if dimly, a slow, vaguely familiar rhythm of four beats resonating through my chest.

My eyes slid shut; I toppled forward onto Pierson, who caught me with a frightened yelp, wrapping his arms around me like a toddler trying to hug a Saint Bernard. Why was the boy so jumpy? I certainly had no idea why.

For that matter, why was the room so damn dark?

And why did I feel that infernal drumming in my chest?

I opened my eyes, and wished I hadn’t as the room spun wickedly in every conceivable direction at once, my narrowing field of vision resembling something akin to a round or two in a phantasmagoria.

“Figures I’d suffer a significantly disruptive arrhythmia in Hospital… watch the birdies, Theta! See the pretty birdies?”

Babble has always been my strong suit. If I hadn’t been so weak I would have cried laughing.

“Sir?”

Poor Pierson. He’d no way of knowing what I truly needed, my being a tall, handsome, -Not Quite Scary Except on Fridays- alien and all.

So he did the only thing he could think of. He checked for my pulse again, then rammed his hands into the cupboard and pulled out a white box connected to two paddles which were nearly as big as his palms.

Oh my giddy aunt. Remind me again how I love a good defibrillation party…


	16. -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Master's POV.

“… Gaaah! What’s the matter, baby New Year? Is mummy not here to give you his overly-sensitive nibs?” 

As I raised an electrified finger, it reminded me of the good old days, when I used to torture immature catsharks in the catchpools near Oakdown.

Theta had already abandoned me to Her by then. Oh yes. It was only later that I realized my destiny. The day they held me before the Untempered Schism and bade me Look.

It was like, oh, let me see now… ah yes. It was like going to Career Day, seeing a bunch of brainless inferiors in Suits and thinking -oh my. Now blood would look ever so nice on me in that.-, then holding up your hands after you’d guilt-tripped, framed, maimed or murdered your competition and saying, ‘Well, teacher, what do you think? The silk or the cashmere? There are so many different colors of blood or the equivalent thereof, I just can’t decide.’

I looked down at my best friend’s baby, waggling my fingers in the cuddlesome runt’s face. As I did so, my hand flashed, the Roentgen Effect turning my flesh electric blue and semi-translucent. To my surprise and vivid amusement, my new little niece-cousin-dolly-pet seemed to enjoy this, gurgling like a newly beheaded chicken bound for the pot of some 5th century Solian peasant.

Suddenly, there was a gasp across niece-y’s monitor; I stared sideways at her. She loves a good show! Good girl. Time to get back to the business of mummy, as there were a certain two hens named Smith and Jones in the henhouse.

“Well you know what they say about cannibals, my pet!” I said, swinging my gurgling little hostage across my back in her green ticking carrier. Oh yes.

It was time for an Intervention.

Question was, would there be roast goose?


	17. -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack's POV.

Slag-sucking morons. Told them I couldn’t die. But did they believe me? Naah.

I smiled, then eased my foot against the blank, sluggy face of one of the Nau-tili just as his slender head lolled out from its spiral shell like tongue on a dog.

Then I stuck one finger in my mouth to attain proper cadence and spoke to them in villi Nau, a viler version of their common speech.

“Now you kids behave, or I’m going to let the Doctor get you!”

A long silence, then several spiral carapaces of alien abalone clicked together, and the sound of big bad shellfish men slurping backward into their shells in horror filled the courtyard.

Laughing with a glee I didn’t feel, I turned from the long line of handcuffed seafood with overlarge cilia and swaggered toward the door the girls had gone through.

“Martha! Miss Smith!” I breathed, coming up behind them where they huddled behind a column, listening to something.

Two pale women stared back at me, eyes reddened, cheeks flushed with pain.

“He’s got her, Jack.”

I blinked; it was horrible of me, but I had to ask. I was always the one who had to ask.

“Which one?”

“Who do you think, Captain?” Sarah Jane warbled flatly, just like the mother robin she’d become.

“It’s him, the Master…,” said Martha, standing up and scraping her hands over her shiny red coat.

“Understood. We need the Doctor. You two go help Pierson with the Old Man, tell them what’s going on. Try to get through to him. I’ll stall the Master.”

\---

Just then, both women froze as the column they’d been leaning against suddenly shifted its shape… and split down the middle, revealing the foreshadow light of an inter-dimensional room.

Arcs of bright blue electrical current screamed from the slit between the doors, three spikes of energy.

A spike hit Jack Harkness in the head, frying his brain like an egg in a skillet, and he went down in a heap.

The second struck Martha in the chest, stopping her heart, dropping her to the cold cement.

The third curled toward Sarah Jane Smith.

It came, faster and faster, a bullet in the dark, closer and closer and slashing, burning through every molecule of air on its way to her.

Then, she was a pillar of blue, and the abandoned halls of Bedlam were quiet again.


	18. -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pierson's POV.

I set my hand to the Doctor’s forehead and just… waited. He was warm, too warm for his race, I remembered from the charts. A fever of 120 was a far cry from his usual 60 or so.

Luckily there was some paddle gel left. Still cool, perfect for waking up a dying Time Lord. A bit of a shock would do it, they’d said. Well I’d shocked him all right. Poor bastard was shivering still, despite the raw heat burning his temples.

My hands flattened against his pale skin. He was too white for my liking, even with the cold gel smeared across his forehead. With what had happened earlier, I knew better than to leave him alone. No fit state, and what.

“It’s all right, sir,” I murmured into his ear, pushing his hair back with shaking fingers. Hard to believe he was over nine-hundred years old… he barely looked thirty-five. 

“… it’ll be all right, you’ll see. Just rest here. I won’t let Him find you.”

“Who would that be now, young man?” said an ancient voice from nowhere.

How had a police box gotten in… hold on just a moment! Police Box!

I clapped a hand to my head and stepped back, away from the white-haired gentleman who had spoken.

“Sir,” I spoke softly, not wanting to give too much away, “… that man on the floor there is your most recent future self. He’s dying, but not quite yet. There are things for him to do in that body that are left undone. I’m just a nurse here, an orderly. And I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you too much, except that you- I mean he- gave birth to a baby girl over four months ago, and had a bit of a post-partum break. Doctor, sir,” I stared at him as the first Doctor mulled this over without even a blink of those soft black eyes, his gaze full of his own concentrated intelligence, “... the Master has your baby.”

The old man seemed shaken as he took me in, his dark, unreadable gaze balancing tightly between action and reaction, teetering sharply between what was Time Lord for fight or flight.

“… bore a child, you say? Well young man, we shall go and have a look. Tend to my future self. We shall return shortly.”

“Yes sir.” I nodded. Time, it seemed, was on our side after all. After I watched the First Doctor kneel beside his counterpart, place his hands on either side of his future self’s temples, and shake visibly as each morsel of vital information seeped into his aged cranium. Then I watched him stand up, brush sweat from his brow, and walk away down the corridor where the sound of fighting still raged. I turned to my patient, who was white in the face and shiny, like a newly cleaned toilet…

“Doctor,” I said softly, brushing his damp dark brown hair from his forehead again, “… your first self is here. He’s taken your memories and gone to deal with the problem. It’ll be all right, I promise.”


	19. Priests Who Darn their Own Socks ( When There's Nobody There)

What was not left of Jack Harkness was squirming on the floor, knitting itself together nerve by twitching nerve. Soon his cranial cavity and the liquefied contents thereof would regrow completely. A jolly good treat for the onlookers.

Martha Jones, her heart still, lay at the foot of the Master’s TARDIS.

Sarah Jane Smith was an electrified pool of blue ash. 

Not that the white haired gentleman in black Victorian waistcoat knew any of this. He was concentrating on other things, namely the baby that his old friend and enemy held in his hands. Hard to believe there was a time when those hands had been clean.

“My, my, my … now isn’t –this- a surprise!” said the Master, sniffing at the baby’s diaper, “... I don’t recall sending out for a man, or even an aged housekeeper. I’m perfectly capable of corrupting this little Time Tot’s morals all on my own.”

“Ah, my old friend, always the jester for the crowd. Might you have some spare nappies?” The First Doctor held out his hand, waving his long gnarled fingers expectantly, like a shopkeep on the take. “As I keep telling you, Koschei, you would appreciate my help if you’d only accept it. Oh my, that is a rather soiled one isn’t it? Better hand her to me. I’ve better track record with such things. I’m not called the Doctor for nothing.”

Then the old man paused, dusted off his black coat and smiled a coroner’s smile as he crossed one hand over his waist and pulled at his chin.

“To think you were ever this small. Do you remember your mother? I do. She was a pretty woman. Resembled my sister Innocet in some ways. They did get on, until Innocet decided to grow out her hair. Have you changed your mind yet? About renouncing your psychopathic ways I mean. This is as good a time as any, old friend.”

The Master snorted, and the baby girl in his arms snuggled into his chest.

“Oh please, Doctor. I hate you, you hate me. It’s more fun this way. Gods you were such an old maid at this age! Don’t you have a heart attack waiting at home for you or something?”

The old man slipped his hand into a pocket and pulled out a small something. Then he tossed it to the Master, who was forced to move the baby to one arm in order to catch the object before it hit her.

“Mummy fancied you, you know. She wanted to pull a Mrs. Robinson, but of course, you had to go and leave.” 

The Master smiled, holding the object up to the lights in the columned hallway.

The Doctor’s brow shot up like a fireworks display in a bad neighborhood. 

“What lewd and utter nonsense! All of it! You used to be better than this. That baby doesn’t belong to you, Koschei. Why don’t you stop traumatizing that poor child, and then we can have tea and be civilized about the whole sordid affair.”

The Time Lord left holding the baby scowled. 

“What makes you think I care what you think? Oh good god now you’ve got –me- doing it. Stop it! Stop annoying me now or I end this little morsel’s life right here. And I’m rather hungry... you know they say that babies taste like chicken… ”

The Doctor’s black eyes went wide as dalek saucers, and he sputtered ineffectually as the Master looked down at his future self’s child as though she were a prize hog. Then he looked at his nemesis, and a smile crossed his ancient face.

“You can’t win this battle, Koschei. Hope will triumph, in the end.”

A snort from the Master, who then looked down at the baby again and kissed her as she snuggled him in her sleep. “Oh, Theta, don’t go on about that again. You know how I can’t stand your moralizing… you being a hypocrite and all.” 

He touched the little girl’s face, tracing her cheek. 

“And to think you were the one who raised the first proverbial stone all those years ago. A nice touch, that. Just think of what his mummy would say if she knew. Oh that’s right. She’s dead!”

“Killed whom, exactly? I don’t recall killing anyone recently. Whatever are you going on about? Honestly you remind me of Chesterton.”

The Master scrubbed a hand through his blonde hair, and began to shiver through another blue flux. 

“You’re much too coy for your age. Did you do the telepathic naughty with Ten? You act as though you know what’s happened between us. Plus, Theta, your language is far too modern. Give up the act. You’ve swiped some of Ten’s memories, haven’t you? You sly old dog! I would kiss you, but the Freak over yonder would give me such a glare!”

“Why are you here, Koschei? There’s no motive behind your actions. It’s almost as if you’ve given up. Do you believe, old friend, that I’ll regard you differently if you harm that child, if you kill her? I’ll still forgive you, you know.” 

Then the Doctor’s body grew up, thinner and taller, his frail features shifting, warping much as particles of light are warped in the pull of a singularity.

“Because it’s what I do. Doesn’t mean you won’t pay for what you’ve done. And by the way, I switched places with my first incarnation. Do you like it?”

He turned to the left, to the right, swinging his hips back and forth like a model on a runway. When he stopped, he was his youthful self again, with the brown spiky hair and the trench coat and the pinstriped suit, and that haunted look that wormed through his fair share of mirth on any given day.

“Oh I’ve had enough. Go ahead. Take your get and leave me alone! It’s not fun here anymore. I deep fried all your companions here anyway. Do bring her to meet me when she’s old enough. I’ll be at your old haunting grounds on Verdigris 15, spray painting the garden statues with blood or something. Good riddance!”

Strange, that.

But the sound of the Master’s TARDIS whirring away did nothing for the Doctor’s mood. Sarah Jane and Martha were staring at each other, gingerly touching their bits and checking for burn spots, while Jack was swaying, already on his feet.

Stranger still.

Hadn’t Sarah Jane been reduced to a smouldering pile of bluish fire-smudge?

The Doctor scratched his head, then ran his lengthy fingers through his messy hair. He knew he was right; Martha’s heart had stopped, too. Yet they were all there, staring at him, smiling. It was somewhat akin to watching Invasion of the Body Snatchers for the hundredth time, only with the lights on.

Yes. All his friends were right in front of him, safe. Happy.

Suddenly he became interested in the wall, because it was filling his field of view at an alarming rate, and he rather thought that strange. And the room was tipping a little to the left, now to the right, now to the left again.

He held up a hand in front of his face, so close he could see the whites of his eyes… only he couldn’t because his hands didn’t have any eyes. A quiet laugh caught in his throat; it seemed more eyes were looking at him, waiting. Hands were coming, too, to gaze at him.

Here they hovered at his gangly elbow, still waiting.

Here they lingered, opening like flowers on his gangly body, reaching, grasping.

Now they held him up, and then they lowered him to the ground, like a basket of arms full of Time Lord.

And wasn’t that funny?

Susan would have laughed.

“The baby… ” he whispered softly as his eyes closed and light dimmed and the world faded into shurds of dirty glass, “... my… baby… where… ”


	20. Revelation

Jack reached up to touch the ALBA device for one last time, the Alternating Boolean Agitator every last one of them had touched before, because the man connected to it was so very important to them. Important to the world, invaluable to the universe.

Metal tubing ran in thin snakes from the ludicrous, all-important drop down helmet the TARDIS had provided, slithering off in every noticeable direction above their heads; it resembled, of sorts, a corona of Medusan headdress, all serpents and rust and magnificent madness, set with the toothy jewels of gears and other less recognizable clockworks. A few makeshift levers, a broom handle here, a shabby length of well loved cricket bat in that slot, the carefully bruised remains of a pliers head stuffed somehow on the end of an oversized mechanical pencil here; all stood on various ends and means around the central console beneath it, sticking up like the Doctor’s hair on a blustery day.

Jack sighed; everyone else sighed too, grateful for the chance to catch their breath after the last few months.

“Think he’ll ever remember, Captain Jack sir?” said Jamie softly, his brogue idling hopefully in the quiet like a raring Cadillac on an empty road.

The Time Agent didn’t answer; instead, a hand clamped on the young Scotsman’s shoulder, a hand he’d never thought to see again, before… before all this.

“One never knows with the Old Boy, do we now? But I think we took a good bit off his conscience, in any case.” The Brigadier was cheerfully somber as he looked at Jamie, then clapped the young man on the shoulder again and retreated backward into the ring of faces.

“Yes, I feel we –have- done with the worst of it,” Nyssa of Traken said, her lilting voice catching as she looked at the Time Lord, his rakish head in a bucket-shaped nest of wires and tubing, “… and the baby will always be safe with all of us; after all, we’re their family.” She turned to Mickey, who was standing up straight, wide eyed, with Prazithi in his arms.

He nodded; “I’m up first for babysittin’ duty, and after me we all take our turn with Little Sister, yeah? Jack, since you’ve got Time Travel capability, you can be chauffeur till Professor Song shows up for hers.”

“You mean it’s my turn already?” A soft pop echoed, and River Song materialized in front of him. Taking the baby from Mickey, she crossed the room and gave the child to Sarah Jane, her eyes never leaving that sweet little face as she smiled that proud wife smile. “I do believe the godmother gets first crack.” Then she turned, her curly locks blocking the read from the monitors. “His brain stem is becoming active again; it’s time to pack things up. He has to be at the corner in time to meet Rose-from-the-past. After that, he’ll see Ood Sigma. Then the Ood will sing, easing the transition, and the Doctor will complete his healing regeneration alone, inside the TARDIS, with no memory of anything that has happened in the last few months. If any of us –and that includes any of our belongings as well as any fresh bioelectrical signatures- are here when that happens, the damage to space and time could be… ”

Of course, it was a rhetorical argument; they all knew it was time to leave him again.

And everyone did; Martha, Sarah Jane, Captain Jack Harkness, Jamie, Mickey Smith, Brigadier Alistair Gordon Leithbridge-Stewart...

Once River stood alone with the Doctor’s sleeping form in the now empty TARDIS, checking the monitors again, she heaved a breath into the ether, then patted his gaunt cheek.

“You may not want to go, but sometimes, well, it’s better to let go of the things that have hurt you too long; better to open old wounds, so they can breathe and heal. Sleep well, my love. Now remember to give the Old Girl a new coat of paint. There’s some temporal seepage along two of the joins in her plasmic shell.”

Just a little kiss, and soon the doors were shut behind her.

\---

FIN


End file.
